


Fool Me Once

by Lurea



Series: Fool Me Once [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Flirting, Dirty Talk, Disguise, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-01-08 10:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12252582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: So why are Deacon and MacCready so snippy with each other when Sole swaps them out? Shame! Deception! Anger! And most of all… SEX!Deacon: Still killing people for caps, MacCready?MacCready: I don't know.....you still pretending to be anybody but yourself?Written for a prompt in theNew Fallout Kink Meme:  a fill that illustrates/explains the swap dialogue between two companions.





	1. Chapter 1

Deacon slumped down on the bench, eyes on the mark. Mark. Heh. Look at him, dropping names and dispensing justice. Just like the Silver Shroud.

The mark was currently rendering a perfectly good stingwing filet into an accumulation of fragments. Uneaten fragments. Trouble? Why sure, friend, let Deacon give you some advice. And some info in exchange.

He was some Gunner named MacCready, and one of the few that they had spotted travelling alone, both to and from the Plaza. He arranged shipments of supplies, carried a sizable amount of caps, and seemed to be on good terms with Wes and the outlying commanders. All that added up to a target acquired. He didn’t look like much, Deacon thought critically. He was wearing typical gunner leathers with a cap pulled low over his eyes. Reddish-brown hair. Not exactly muscle-bound.

Deacon sighed and suppressed the urge to shift around on the bench. He wasn’t that big into personal recon. He was more of a watch and wait type. From a distance. But Glory was busy, others were recovering from the Lexington disaster, and Dez had pulled him off his periodic stakeout of the old Vault. As Desdemona had pointed out, it wasn’t like he was doing anything useful. The way her lips thinned on the word 'useful' got his back up. It’ll be useful someday, Dez, he told her mental image silently. Just you wait.

The Gunner picked up his half-empty glass of moonshine and tossed it down. Ugh. Deacon had his doubts that the stuff was actually intended for human consumption. Beside him on the bench was a bottle of the finest bathtub gin, courtesy of Tinker Tom. Speaking of which...he pulled the cork and took a quick swig, straight from the bottle. He rolled it around in his mouth and discreetly spit it into a cup. All of the fragrance, none of the drunkenness.

_Ingratiate yourself_ , Dez had told him sternly. _Find out if there’s anything to that dead drop about the Gunners. And stop acting like you don't know what ingratiate means, Deacon_. All right, Dez, he silently acquiesced. I'll do my best ingratiating. Uh-oh, looky there. MacCready was putting down his glass and shifting around. All the signs of a gentleman that is preparing to leave an establishment. Sigh from mental-Dez: _And for heaven's sake, Deacon, don't over-complicate things_. 

Hey, that offended him. He never…well, rarely. Okay, occasionally he over-complicated things. But this—some gossip gathering. No biggie. Mental-Dez snorted. Yeah, but...he'd picked up the mark at the gates, followed him to the Dugout, and positioned himself on a bench by the door, with MacCready none the wiser. 

Now he rose, casually settling his sunglasses and hat, and picked up his bottle. Took a few casual steps until he was alongside the table. Allowed his gaze to drift casually over. Did a double-take. The guy glanced up too and their eyes met.

"Whoa!" Deacon exclaimed. "I know you. It's been a while..." He snapped his fingers, looked up as if searching his memory. "Uh, MacCready, wasn't it?" He grinned. "Yeah, from Gunner's Plaza. How ya doing, man?"

MacCready was obviously pulled out of his thoughts but after a few moments, he smiled guardedly. "Doing all right, I guess. How about yourself?"

Not waiting for an invitation, Deacon pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. Table was small enough that their knees touched. "You had to ask! ‘Bout got myself skinned poking around Fallon's. The big one south of here. More mutants than I remembered." He shuddered. "And those creepy dogs. Total Hound of the Baskervilles vibe."

He scooted his chair in a little closer and folded his arms on the table. His knee bumped MacCready’s again. He set the bottle down next to the other's glass. Nice hands. Tanned, steady, long fingers. Hmmm…Deacon didn't subscribe to the theory that hands gave a preview of...other parts, but he did have to admit the guy had nice ones. Interesting. Dez hadn’t told him to flirt. But then again, she hadn’t explicitly told him _not_ to flirt either. And really, what was the quickest way to get information? A long night spent getting drunk with the guy, or … A long night spent having sex with the guy? Okay, maybe there wasn’t an actual _time_ savings, but still--


	2. Chapter 2

Mental-Dez was disapproving. _Keep it simple, Deacon_! All right, Dez—well, we'll just see what happens, eh? 

MacCready glanced down distractedly and moved his chair back. “Uh, hound of what?” 

“Old story. Awesome and spooky and with a hot detective. Not like Nick. Even better. Be nice to me and I’ll tell it to you. Here, let me." Deacon leaned forward until he could see the color of MacCready’s eyes. Clear blue. Unusual. He liked it. His own eyes were the boring kind of blue that looked grey most of the time, green part of the time, and occasionally hazel. It was useful for disguises but memorable it was not. He filled Mac’s glass half full of gin and handed it to him. “But really, what am I saying, just give me, like, any encouragement at all and I’ll tell it to you."

"Uh, thanks?” MacCready took the glass, fingers brushing his, and Deacon held on just a beat too long, watching him. MacCready glanced at it and set it down, instead of sipping. Damn. “So much as I love creepy old world stories, I gotta say…Fallon's, huh? That place has been full of mutants forever. You're lucky you got out in one piece."

"Oh, I didn't. No. I left all sorts of pieces behind." Deacon saluted MacCready with the bottle and then took a swig. Licked his lips deliberately. MacCready’s eyes dropped down and then away. Hah. MacCready frowned slightly and looked over at him like he thought he might have injuries. Deacon grinned to himself and let him look. MacCready’s gaze swept over him from head to toe. Deacon took the opportunity to return the assessment. Shorter than him, lean—some might say scrawny, but that’s because they’re missing the subtle bulk of muscle in his shoulders and biceps.

MacCready caught him looking and his lips quirked. “Well. It doesn’t look like anything’s missing.”

Deacon leaned back and let his hand trail down his chest. “Really? I’m flattered.” Then he laughed and nudged MacCready’s shoulder playfully. "I meant my stock, dude. Lost a bunch of guns, some ammo. Headed up here to resupply. And y'know. Do trader stuff. 'Cuz I'm a trader." Deacon said this on a whim. Dez had told him to act like a washed-out recruit. No way, Dez, he said to her mentally. Do I look like a Gunner recruit to you?

_That's why you washed out_ , mental-Dez retorted.

"--didn't know any trade routes went by Fallon's." MacCready finished. He looked at Deacon curiously.

"Routes? No, no...I--I don't believe in routes. Because they’re…predictable." Deacon had no idea where the southern trade routes went. Inspiration struck. "And there’s too much competition. I'm like, independent. Just little ol' me against the Commonwealth."

"Okay." MacCready shook his head, smiling. "Funny. You'd think I'd remember a guy like you hanging around Gunner's Plaza." He picked up his glass and looked at it closely. "And I don't. Not at all. Did you put something in my drink?"

Deacon cursed inwardly. Aren't we Mr. Observant tonight, Gunner Mac? Mental-Dez rolled her eyes and sighed.

Time for double or nuthin'! He touched both hands to his chest and put on his best innocent face. "I am wounded, MacCready. Honestly. Sincerely. You think I'd do something like that?"

"I don't think I know you at all," MacCready retorted. His right hand dropped below the table. Um. Things were getting out of hand.

Deacon grabbed the glass and took a healthy gulp. "Fine, there. You see? Nothing in it." Ugh, everyone was so suspicious nowadays. Why couldn’t a guy treat another guy with a drink? Did everyone have to assume that it was some sort of ploy? Besides, it wasn’t like Daytripper would hurt him. Just…relax him a little.

MacCready's eyes narrowed, but his other hand came back up on the table. Whew. Okay, definitely _always_ buy the flavorless kind. He’d been tempted, he’d thought that the mint sounded nice, but wow. Flavorless was the way to go.

He laid affected innocence on thick. "And you don't remember me? At all? Man, I gave you a great deal on all that ammo. Just because I thought you were cute.” Deacon waggled his eyebrows at MacCready but got no reaction. No fair. Shameless butter up time. “But I guess you get that a lot.” Nothing. Again. This was starting to hurt his confidence. “I'm...uh..." Deacon paused. He hadn't actually bothered to think up an alias, and giving the name 'Deacon' might sound a little odd. "Um...y'know. D-Dave."

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” MacCready still looked suspicious, even after all that buttering and flirting. Either the guy was made of stone or Deacon needed to step it up a notch. Deacon stretched his legs out and coincidentally bumped MacCready’s again.

Deacon put a hint of pathetic whine in his voice. "You know, Trader Dave?" No reaction. “Okay, well, some people call me Butcher Dave. I don’t approve but nicknames are never what you want them to be, right? I mean, that’s gotta be like, against the code of nicknames.”

MacCready looked at him steadily. “Butcher Dave.”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting nickname for a trader.”

“Hey. I slash prices, dude.”


	3. Chapter 3

MacCready grimaced. _Sheesh_. Everyone's a critic. Deacon thought that was a great line. Especially on the spur of the moment.

Time for a shot in the dark. Underdogs were always lovable. "All right, I also got told never to show my face in the Plaza after that one slip-up." 

Dez had a pretty thick file on the Gunners. Not that he’d read the whole thing. All the meticulous planning was just so… Dez and so not… Deacon. Dave, he corrected himself. Dea—Dave was a big picture guy. Any human organization had slip-ups. He was betting that Gunners were the type of jerk organization that went the blame, shame, punish, banish route. Not the most efficient way to keep talent. Thank god, the Railroad was a little more…flexible. 

MacCready looked skeptical. "I thought that was Cruz." Hard sell. No one’s more suspicious than a grifter, and Deacon didn’t know anything about him...but. No way he was on the up and up. Took one to know one. 

"Yeah, well, I'd made a deal with him. But the bastard sold me out, got me banned." 

MacCready frowned and shrugged. "Sounds like Cruz, all right. Everybody hates his guts." 

Oh yeah. He called it. Assholes collect assholes. He made his voice sound regretful. "Made a big dent in my business, man. I admit it, I saw you here, I couldn't help but wonder if you could get me back in."

Everybody’s out for themselves. This particular guy, with something to hide, Deacon’d bet on that, too, he’s more likely to believe that than any song-and-dance hard luck story. MacCready finally took a sip from his drink. "Sorry, but I can't really help you. I haven't been stationed at Gunner's Plaza for six months or so." 

Deacon allowed his gaze to rest skeptically on MacCready's pack, sitting in another chair to the sniper's right. Made his voice sound desperate but nobly trying to hide it. "If you don't want to, it's okay to just say so." 

"Hey, I'm not sh—lying to you. I've been detached to Winlock and Barnes' unit, the jerks. All I get are the crap jobs. Go here. Go there. Go re-supply. Go pick up some recruits." 

There we go. The sweet sound of disaffected flunky! He put on his best sympathetic look. "Seriously? Man, I thought you'd be promoted by now?" Did gunners do promotions? They had to. I mean, they had officers and...whatever, those guys that had the better guns than the rank and file. "The guy at the top must be blind." _Look how well I'm ingratiating, Dez!_

MacCready gave him a curious look. "Nah, Captain Wes is a pretty good guy." Geez. This guy sucked at being a disaffected flunky. Didn’t he know anything? Given an opening like that, Deacon could have groused for _three solid hours_ about Desdemona. And at least fifty--forty percent of it would have been true! Deacon pushed down his annoyance with uncooperative sources to regroup.

Hmmm. Flashback to the list of Gunners that Dez had insisted he memorize. _You threw it away, didn't you?_ Mental-Dez asked. _Dammit, Deacon!_

Chill. He pictured the list. Yes. He had this. "Oh, I didn't mean Wes. The old boy never gave me any problems. I meant Baker. Kinda of a pain in the ass about this rule, that rule, set up here, not there. " He allowed himself a world-weary sigh. "Dunno, maybe he was cool to you, but I think we disliked each other at first sight. That's why he was ready to jump all over me when Cruz went whining to him."

MacCready nodded. "Baker's a hardass. A true believer. I could deal with that, but him and Wes both already have their favorites. And if you're not one of them, be prepared to suck up."

Deacon pursed his lips and made a kissing sound. MacCready laughed and took another sip of his drink. Hah. He was so in with this guy. _See there, Dez?_ Skill. _Pure skill_. Mental-Dez declined to comment. He relaxed back into his seat and took another swig from his bottle. Appeared to swallow more than he did. An acquired _skill_. "Hey now, if you're running errands for Winlock and Barnes, you must be some kinda something. They don't just trust anyone with their caps." He raised his eyebrows and gave MacCready a smirk. "You're paying in caps, right? Not just stealing whatever catches your eye?" Those fingers looked made to hold a lockpick.

MacCready burped and swiped his hand across his face. "Hush your mouth. I would never ever—“ He broke off with a laugh. “Okay, okay, you got me there. But the official line is the Gunners want no trouble with Diamond City."

"Unofficial line is Mayor McDonough keeps Wes sweet with a little sugar every now and then." Deacon said, and watched Mac's eyes widen with satisfaction.

"Where'd you hear—listen, keep your voice down," he hissed, looking over one shoulder.

Deacon leaned forward. "So you're a bagman! Cool! You're like, the first one I've met, dude. Carrying around caps, threatening people—that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up! I'm so impressed. So how do you carry, like thousands of caps? Brahmin? Special packs? Couriers?"

MacCready made a shushing motion with his hands. "Ix-nay on the agman-bay. ‘M just a lowly messenger boy. An errand boy. Gotta set up for the push into--" He snapped his mouth shut suddenly, and took a hasty gulp of gin.

Deacon’d seen enough secrets to know that he’d nearly given the game away. Damn. What a time to suddenly get sober and responsible. So close and yet still so far away. 

He looked down, picking idly at the label on his bottle. It was a crude line drawing of Tinker Tom getting hit by lightning. "Totally not noticing that sudden pause in your enchanting conversation, MacCready. Loose lips sink ships, you know. Because lip incompatibility is a very serious and under-reported issue. In fact, I just happen to offer a free test for lip incompatibility. It’s just…wait a minute, there’s this special phrase you need to say to trigger the right subroutine….” He pretended to search his pockets. “Here it is. You say _‘kiss me.’_ If you need it stat, just add ‘ _now_.’"


	4. Chapter 4

He kept one eye on MacCready’s fine fine hands as he spoke. One was loosely curled around his drink, in a way that should look relaxed and uncaring—but for the thumb, which kept restlessly rubbing in a small constricted circle. The other one—the left hand, the dominant hand, was flat on the edge of the table. It might look casual, but Deacon was willing to bet hard caps that MacCready had a mean little holdout pistol tucked into the pants pocket on that side. As for the other--sexual tension? Hah. Deacon’d like to believe that… therefore he definitely shouldn’t. 

"I don’t even know what you are talking about," MacCready retorted. He glanced up at the sky and around the corridor. It was getting late and Diamond City was slowing down. A guard strolled by and gave them a hard look. Deacon noticed MacCready noticing. If he was doing anything underhanded for the Gunners, he wouldn’t want to come to the guards’ attention. Stupid civilized Diamond City. You could roister til dawn in Goodneighbor and no one would blink an eye. 

All righty, then. If indirect prodding wasn’t working, maybe it was time to be direct. MacCready was staring down into his glass, looking pensive. Deacon leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the table. "So what are your feelings on synths? The kind that supposedly look like humans."

“Huh. We're tellin' scary stories now?” 

Huh-one word and almost half a grunt. But Deacon had to admire its concise communication of sarcasm, amusement and contempt. So now he knew what MacCready thought of synths. He nodded and chuckled. “I know, right? Can’t believe people are wasting their time like that. Didja know Security actually had to shoot a guy last week? He was waving a gun around, swearing that his brother wasn’t his brother anymore.”

“If the Institute is so powerful, why would they waste their time replacing random people?” MacCready shrugged. “I don’t know, I just can’t see it. And if a bullet in the head kills them, what does it matter?” 

“Darn, so the Gunners won’t be saving us all from the big bad Institute?” Deacon asked playfully. 

MacCready shook his head. “If the Institute paid us a big enough fee, we’d replace half the fu-frickin’ Commonwealth ourselves.” 

Deacon looked up sharply, but MacCready went on: “Nah, synths or the Institute aren’t even in the top ten for Gunners. You know. Our real deal is killing people. Sacking settlements, collecting bribes, strong-arming little farms. Occasionally we get paid to shoot raiders or muties, that’s always fun.” His mouth twisted on the last words. Well. Guy was a better actor than he looked if he could appear to have a conscience. 

“I love to shoot mutants. I’d do it every day and twice on Sunday,” Deacon agreed, taking another swig from his bottle. That sounded pretty decisive. Whatever the Gunners were up to, and they were obviously up to _something_ , it wasn’t aimed at the Railroad. And even if Gunners were aware of the Railroad, they’d probably ignore it. Hard to blackmail crazy idealists. Well, nothing to blackmail Trader Dave for anyway. He was as innocent as a new lamb, because he’d just been born about 20 minutes ago. He came out of his thoughts abruptly, aware of Mac's eyes on his face. He looked a little too perceptive for Deacon's comfort. He pulled Crazy Dave the Trader back on and poked MacCready in the side. "Are you sure you're not a bagman? Because you still kinda sound like a bagman." 

MacCready smiled slightly, chinking his glass against Deacon's bottle. "You wish." Now to extricate himself gracefully. MacCready sipped and Deacon noticed how his lips curved around the edge of the glass. Then he set it down and a single drop of gin (and Daytripper, let’s not forget) clung to his bottom lip. That was seriously sexy. Of course, getting fixated on some dude's lips (that he barely knew) was probably a function of not thinking though all the consequences when he'd used that truly awesome sleight of hand to drop the Daytripper in MacCready's drink. Also the fact that the drug's total lack of lethality allowed him to be somewhat cavalier about the dosage. As in—it wasn't going to kill him so just use it all.

Mental-Dez—he winced. _Drugging informants? Have you_ lost _your mind?_ Yeah, he didn't want to think about it. Especially not how high and how loud Dez's voice could get if he put this in his report. No rush to head back to HQ. He could hang out with this cute guy a while longer. Speaking of which-- was it getting warm in here? 

Deacon shifted on the seat. Sporting an erection right now might be a tad out of character for Butcher Dave. Maybe it was in-character. Dave moved around a lot, as a trader, so he's learned to keep sex casual. But if that was the case, then he should be making a move. Not making one would be definitely out of character. Unless he was just stringing MacCready along and that didn't set right. Dave might be a jerk, but he wasn’t an asshole. Or was he? Costumes, nothing but costumes all the way down. And too much introspection. 

See, this is another reason why you avoid Daytripper, Deacon, he chided himself. What had he been thinking? His thoughts were scattered. Ah, yes. How to extricate himself gracefully.


	5. Chapter 5

Right, but here’s the thing. What if he _didn’t_ extricate himself? No putting the Daytripper back in the bottle, after all. Not like he’d ever see _this_ guy again. What if he just hung around and got Gunner Mac between the sheets—and worked it off the old fashioned way. Beat brooding. And he might let something more slip, right? Along with his clothing. 

_And his self-respect_ , mental-Dez muttered in the back of his head.

Deacon plastered a leer on Dave’s face. "I wish? That sounds promising. What if I wish for world peace? Nah, who am I kidding, no one would wish for that. That cat’s out of the bag for good.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “Maybe I’m wishing for a handsome prince."

MacCready looked at him sideways. Surprise but also a spark of interest. It was _about time_. "Well, Dave, that sounds like the opening of a bad radio-drama."

Deacon almost smiled for real. Guy had a quick wit. He made his voice quiver dramatically. "Ah must save the family farm. Ah'll do anything. Offer up my virtue. Act. Walk the streets. Your business is my pleasure? " 

He dropped the stage voice and went on casually, "Or maybe it’s your pleasure is my business. I’m not totally sure but you get the idea, right? I’m totally implying that I will sell my body to pay off the big bad bagman. I’m just kinda running out of euphemisms for prostitute myself."

MacCready’s lips were twitching. "I’m not an expert, but I don’t think it counts as implying when you say it straight out. Y’know. That you’re a gentleman of light morals."

Deacon frowned. "See, that doesn’t even sound right. In all the old books that I’ve read, only women could have light morals and judgey tragic endings. But I’m a genre-buster. I have hot, destructive romances with emotionally-unavailable men." He struck a pose, with one hand thrown over his eyes, while the other tugged down his shirt down revealingly. He snuck a peek out of one eye. MacCready looked depressingly un-overcome by lust. He released his shirt and sighed—moodily, because no sense wasting a good sigh. “What can I say? I have a type. I feel like it’s working well for me so far, I’m gonna keep it. It’s not a classic if it’s not depressing.”

MacCready leaned forward, close enough that Deacon could see the freckles scattered across his nose. “Right. I think I’ve figured out your problem. Your pickup lines suck.” He took a sip of gin and added, “And not the good kind of suck. Where it’s cheesy but still funny? Nope. Just…bad.”

Deacon started and snapped his fingers. “Man, that isn’t fair. I was being all emotionally honest…well, honest might be too strong a word, but I was certainly laying …something…out there. And now you’re telling me that that’s the wrong approach?” He grinned and said, "Was that an earthquake or did you just rock my world?" 

"Oh, man. I'm thinking you’re a disaster.” MacCready lowered his eyes and then looked up bashfully. “So did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”

Deacon almost broke character and gaped at him, before recovering. He wasn't used to his conversation softballs being tossed back with that much heat. His brain ticked up into high gear, and a hard grin stole across his face. “Not as much as this conversation. Speaking of which, what’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?” 

MacCready tossed his head back in a theatrical laugh. “I was gonna ask you the same thing! Are you from Tennessee?”

“Honey, you’re the only ten I see.” Deacon grabbed MacCready’s hand and rubbed it across his chest. “Feel my shirt. Nice, huh? That’s totally boyfriend material.”

MacCready shrugged. "Eh. Looks a little clingy and hard to maintain.”

Deacon snorted laughter into his bottle. “Just so you know, I could do this all night.”

“And this is me believing you.” MacCready hadn’t pulled his hand back and Deacon’s heart started to beat faster. Anticipation was a helluva drug.

Mac moved his hand to Deacon’s shoulder and gripped it. “Quick question. Do you ever stop talking? Like—ever?" 

Deacon grinned sultrily. "If you can shut me up, you’re a better man than most."

MacCready raised his eyebrows, tone silky. "Is that a challenge? I like challenges."

Deacon said, "Yeah? I like kittens and--"

That's as far as he got before Mac leaned over and…didn’t kiss him. Instead, Mac leaned so close that he could feel the faintest whisper of his breath on his cheek, one hand touching the side of his neck. And there he stopped, while the hand on his shoulder slid slowly down over his arm and his other curved around the side of his neck, raising a tingling tide of gooseflesh across his body.

Deacon swallowed, and MacCready caressed the nape of his neck.

"You stopped talking," MacCready said in a low voice. The hand on his arm moved across his stomach and up to his chest, skimming across his nipple. Deacon's cock stiffened and he licked his lips. 

He took a breath and MacCready pulled him sideways and kissed lightly down the side of his neck. His breath whooshed out and he forgot what he'd been about to say. MacCready's teeth fastened onto his earlobe and tugged, then sucked hard on the sensitive skin below. His hand ghosted across Deacon's stomach, dropped down to rest lightly over his fly.

"Well, what have we here." MacCready rumbled. 

Deacon had to swallow before he had enough saliva to speak. Jesus. Either the Daytripper was really starting to hit, or his acting skills were dead in the water. Hmmm. Definitely the Daytripper. "Is it a puppy? I hope it's a puppy."

_to be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon and MacCready head in to get down.  
> Sorry for the delay, but I wanted to say that I really appreciate every single person that reads this! Thank you, thank you!  
> Now, on to the smut!
> 
> ******

MacCready laughed and stood up, pulling Deacon with him. "Let's get out of here." The tone in his voice sent a shiver down Deacon's back. And other parts perked up too. Okay. It had been a while. He had to say, he liked the direction this was going. Easy-peasy. Maybe a little too easy? Nope, he was just that good. 

"Only if ' _get out of here_ ’ is like, code for hooking up." He followed Mac into the Dugout. "And in case you were wondering, _hooking up_ is code for fucking. See, I'm hip to all the latest slang." He waved to Vadim cheerfully as they passed the bar, and showed his bottle of bathtub gin. Vadim looked amused and shook his head. 

MacCready stopped in front of room two and pulled a key out of his pocket. "I have a room."

"Awesome. You're prepared. Like a Boy Scout. Do you have a bandana? I can think of at least seven good uses for a bandana right now." And lube. He had some in the bottom of his pack, but he hadn't seen it...or used it...for a while.

The door slammed behind them and MacCready pushed him up against it, clutching the lapels of his coat. "Well. That sounds interesting. Let's hear them." Then he unbuttoned Deacon's shirt, and sucked a red spot below his collarbone. His lips were hot and wet on Deacon's skin, his back flat against the door, the other guy's groin pressed into his. He could feel how hard he was, and when his hips moved forward involuntarily, the other pushed back with a rocking motion that made him glad for the support. 

"You were saying?" MacCready mumbled against his skin, and then licked slowly, deliberately up the side of his neck. 

"Bandanas, right," but the words were too gaspy, too overwhelmed, so Deacon lowered his tone to sound more in control. "Used to keep dust out of your lungs, or to hide your face while you rob banks. Or as a tourniquet, or a-" His voice faltered as MacCready undid his belt and pulled his fly open. His cock was hard and leaking a little, as MacCready curled his fingers around the shaft and pumped slowly, up, down, again. Rough swipe of tongue across the head.

"That's not seven?" The feel of MacCready's breath on the sensitive skin nearly made him groan aloud. 

"A-a sling, or a washcloth or a towel. To mark a trail. Or as a carry pack..Or--" His voice trailed off into a breathless moan as Mac's mouth, hot and wet engulfed his cock. He reached out blindly and plunged one hand into MacCready's hair.

NacCready made a muffled sound in the back of his throat and the vibration had him thrusting forward, almost unable to stop himself. MacCready looped one fist loosely around his dick as he pulled back, jacking him slowly. Too slowly. Deacon tightened his grip on Mac's hair, and MacCready obligingly opened wider and sucked harder. 

The slick and slide of lips and tongue was unexpectedly delicious, and it had been way too long, and almost before he knew, he was on the brink. He thought briefly about trying to stave it off but then really, Mac was probably getting tired, so the real consideration would be to finish as quickly as possible and he looked amazingly hot on his knees, with one hand and his lips around Deacon's dick. Mac tightened his grip a little and then reached up with his other hand to cradle and stroke Deacon's balls and that was almost enough to start him shooting down his throat. _Almost_. Then MacCready pulled loose with a pop and said, with an edge of satisfaction, "So that's the way to stop you talking."

Deacon was left with an achingly hard dick that made it hard to think. Hah. Double-entendres in his own head. Totally amusing. "Absolutely. You can shut me up like that any time. Like, any time. Really. I mean, I don't like to babble but that was definitely a babble-worthy blowjob."

Then he reached down and yanked MacCready to his feet, while simultaneously trying to touch and feel him all over. “Like, I’m into returning the favor, but now I might get performance anxiety.” 

“That’s good to know. Y’know. Reciprocity and all.” MacCready’s lips curved and he pulled away again, sliding his coat down over his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. 

Deacon was distracted for a moment by that vocabulary word—hadn’t he decided that Mac wasn’t that smart? But there was obviously more to this sniper than a talented tongue. With his lips red and shiny, flushed skin setting off his eyes and hair, he was like a magnet to Deacon. Too much of a magnet. He looked away with an effort. Better set some boundaries. “Yeah, totally, but me, I do a lot of traveling, you know?”


	7. Chapter 7

MacCready turned around, began unsnapping his leather armor. “Yeah? I was thinking this was a one night thing.” 

“Right, so long as we’re agreed,” Deacon said, and pulled off his own shirt. “And, no, uh, mouth kissing.” MacCready was neatly put together, with Gunner leathers, shirt tucked in, black pants snug over a fine ass, and Deacon really wanted to undo him in every way, undress him, unwind him, put pleading in that husky voice and sweaty tension in his limbs.

He moved closer and knelt down on the bed. MacCready loosened the scarf around his neck, and Deacon pulled it out of his hands. “Huh. Bandana.” Mac pulled off his armor and dropped it next to the bed.

“Yeah, you didn’t mention the funnest use,” MacCready said. He looped the ends around Deacon’s wrists and tugged it tight. “This one.” 

Deacon’s mouth went dry. “I don’t think that’s in the boy scout handbook,” he managed.

MacCready released the cloth and shifted, ran his hands up Deacon’s thighs. “Any other rules I need to know?”

Deacon shook his head. “Nada. Not a one.” Then he tipped MacCready backward on the bed and crawled up over him, unbuttoning his shirt. Tasted nipples and ribs and lazily mouthed down over sharp hip bones. Couldn't pull down the pants due to the ammo belts wrapped around one thigh. "So is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Mac huffed a laugh, loose and easy, and he wasn't undone yet, by any means, but then Deacon was just getting started. 

Unbutton, unfasten, undo. Pockets, loose ammo pouches. The kid had not just one but two hold out weapons. When he lifted the second and dropped it down on the floor next to the bed, Mac inhaled sharply, and half-rose up on one elbow. Deacon turned his head until his cheek was across Mac's groin and smiled at him. Easy, non-threatening. "That’s one hell of an arsenal," he said, letting his voice range low and vibratory across Mac's cock. MacCready's blue eyes darkened with lust and he dropped back flat on the bed with a bitten-off moan. That....show a Wastelander that all you wanted to do was fuck them and they usually believed it.

But MacCready was pretty prepared even by Wasteland standards. Deacon pulled a combat knife and a shitload of spare magazines before he started wondering just where he had grown up. He couldn't be more than...twenty-three or so and yet here he was, loaded like a sentry and running for the Gunners. "Shit, man, you're lucky I find guns and ammo hot as hell," he announced. He flattened a hand over the bulge in Mac's pants. "What will we find in here?" He unbuttoned and said, "Ah-ha!"

Nice dick, already hard and smooth and soft as silk. Deacon tongued the little slit in the end and was rewarded with several drops of pearly white pre-come. Mac's hands settled on Deacon's shoulders. Deacon licked the head, along the shaft and under, gently taking one ball, then another into his mouth. Then he went back up to the head, doing a little suck and swirl. MacCready groaned and his fingers dug into Deacon’s skin, his sniper's calluses rough. Deacon relaxed his throat, and then went down, until his nose touched curly reddish hair. 

"Oh, oh!" MacCready's voice cut off abruptly and he thrust forward, rough and uncoordinated, and grabbed the back of his head. Deacon clung to Mac’s hips, feeling his own dick throb as MacCready fucked his face, thrust after thrust, grip on his hair painfully tight, not allowing him to move away or swallow. Deacon was so hard he thought he’d come if he could even just press his dick against the bed. Then Mac paused, gasping and he came up in another long, slow slide. 

Now Mac looked _deliciously_ wrecked, sheen of sweat on his face, with strands of hair hanging in his eyes, and Deacon was about to hump his leg if it would get him off. Shit! He leaned his forehead against Mac’s thigh, muscles trembling, and tried to ease back down. 

MacCready took a deep breath and groped around his discarded clothing. Deacon hoped he wasn't going for a weapon, but MacCready handed him a packet of lube.

Deacon raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Handy." He tore it open with his teeth and smoothed it on his fingers. MacCready's hard dick was leaking a little, so he licked it off with his tongue. "You've been eating a lot of fruit," he said conversationally. He sucked hard at the crown and reached down to slowly ease one finger in.

MacCready’s breath caught and his thighs tensed, started to open. And if that wasn’t the fucking hottest thing he’d seen since… Deacon had to press down hard on his dick with his free hand. He added a second finger to the first and MacCready tensed, started to thrust. Licked again. Mac made a wordless noise of frustration as he kissed open-mouthed down his shaft, pressed his tongue underneath. He didn’t think he could deep throat him again without coming all over himself. Tasted the tart-sweet flavor of the lube. Added a third finger, slowly, hooked them inside until MacCready gasped and arched. Pearly droplets overflowed, dripped down to pool on his stomach.

MacCready grabbed his shoulder and yanked. “Yeah, all right. Now how about you fuck me?"

That thought sent a bolt of lightning straight to his cock. Deacon grinned at him. "Your ideas intrigue me. I'd like to subscribe to your newsletter." 


	8. Chapter 8

“Oh my god, shut up,” MacCready said in exasperation. “What the hel—eck is a newsletter?” He turned onto his side on the bed, crooking one knee up. The action canted his hips nicely. Deacon couldn’t resist a little lick. And another. And then slowly, he was licking up his spine, without having any conscious thought of moving. Then he was over him, covering his body, because he was just that much taller than Mac, not enough to feel bad, but enough to feel… big. Fuck. 

He squeezed out more lube, hot skin-cold liquid-warmer-then-hot, and lined himself up. Nice ass, pink hole, gleaming wetly in the faint light leaking around the sides of the door. He eased in, a little at a time, pausing to savor it. 

MacCready’s body tensed and he grabbed the headboard and pushed up a little, driving Deacon deeper. Deacon half-groaned and tried to stifle it in Mac’s hair, some weird feeling in the back of his head. Desdemona, watching. Tinker Tom. Tommy Whispers. _Why should you get any pleasure, Deacon? You don’t deserve it._ Feeling like he was floating outside his body, watching himself mouth the skinny guy’s neck while easing himself deeper, deeper, until he was sheathed completely within his body, Mac’s bitten-off little moans sounding hot as hell. Damn. This was the Daytripper. No way was he down here in the Dugout Inn, fucking some stranger? Christ, who was he? 

Dizziness, distance, disassociation… Deac—Dav—Deacon didn’t know right then. It was enough just to be here, feeling this, being this person. _For now._

"Oh, wait," MacCready gasped. "It's porn, right?"

Deacon eased out gently, and then back in. Make it good for the other person. He couldn’t connect Mac’s words to anything. Out. In. Slow. Easy. At the end of the stroke, his balls tightened and he had to pause and lean his forehead on MacCready’s shoulder. “What?” 

MacCready shivered, a reaction that went from his shoulders to his hips and then to Deacon’s dick. He bit his lip and tried to choke down the visceral reaction that made him want to grab Mac’s hips and just pound away. 

“A newsletter—must be porn, right?” 

Deacon immediately flashed to every delicately worded Pre-war sex scene that he'd ever masturbated over and nearly shot his load. No, a newsletter was sterile or argumentative, at least that was the impression he'd always gotten, but. “No, no, that’s—I mean—” And then he's pushing forward, because his mouth can't explain it, but his body can damn sure act it out, and 'porn' sounds way more delicious than it reads. 

Deacon reached around and grabbed Mac's dick, slippery with lube and pre-come and spit. God, it felt good. He thrust forward, angling his hips until MacCready's breath caught with a hitch. Just a smidge harder, faster, and the bowed lines of MacCready's back, the curve of his ass was just...hot. 

MacCready braced his hands against the headboard and pushed back again. The sensation temporarily whited out the connection between Deacon's brain and mouth.

"No more talking," MacCready panted. “Unless it’s dirty talk.”

Deacon was back in his own head, not floating up on the ceiling, watching helplessly but down on the bed and….fuck it, enjoying this. Enjoying it more than he had anything for a long time. He stroked down Mac’s thigh, and lifted, shifting their hips. Got the angle. Rocked in, deeper, slower, couldn’t help but look down and see Mac’s hole flutter around his dick, felt the muscles twitch. Fuck. He was so tight, it felt like he was squeezing his dick. Tight and hot and—Jesus!

“Dirty talk. Man, you’re kind of bossy,” he said, mostly to distract himself. 

He shifted again, and MacCready groaned. “Takes one to know one.” Deacon put his chin on Mac’s shoulder and pushed forward, rocked in, withdrew. Drawing it out. Savoring it. Totally thinking ‘dirty talk’ how cliché, how trite, and then his mouth opened, words tumbling out. 

“Dirty talk. I don’t know, man, that’s not my thing. But you know, I could, I could like, just stay here all night, stay inside and just fuck you over and over again. Like be buried balls deep and you lie there and take it, take me, as hard as---“ He had to stop and take a breath, and holy shit, he wanted to come. He pumped forward, short and hard and choked off a moan, before continuing, crazy babble he didn’t even know he had inside him. 

“As long as I want. Stay inside you, make you keep coming, until this bed, this room is just soaked in sex and sweat and come. And it’s ours, forever, me fucking you, just like, forever and come everywhere--” Another sharp thrust forward, MacCready pushing back until he was as deep as possible. “Until you can’t even take a step without feeling my cock in you—“ He broke off and groaned, coming hard, feeling Mac shudder, and hot come spurting onto his hand. 

Then his arms and legs stopped obeying him and pitched him face-forward onto MacCready. They both lay still for several minutes, and Deacon softened until he slid out, with a sticky rush. “Oops,” he said lazily.

MacCready stirred and Deacon could hear a smile in his voice. “Promises, promises.” 

Deacon waited for the rush of paralyzing shame, regret and self-doubt but they all declined to show up. Instead, he felt….mostly good. He still felt like about half of him was up on the ceiling, but instead of disapproving, the guy was giving a thumbs-up. He hadn’t even thought about—anyone else. 

He’d gotten much better at evading the stuff that he doesn’t want to think about over the years and so he moved smoothly on from that thought, to thinking about resting up for a few minutes and then fucking MacCready again. Or letting him fuck him. That sounded good, in a down and dirty, I-don’t-want-to–be-able-to-walk -tomorrow way. He wondered how Mac would react if he told him that. 

MacCready wiped himself off with the sheet and turned over, carefully keeping a little distance between their bodies. That was a practiced bit of subtlety that Deacon hadn’t been expecting. It would be easy to sit up and start pulling his clothes on and beat it out of there. But when does Deacon ever take the easy route? 

_All the time. Every day. Like, really, every single day,_ the him up on the ceiling mutters. Shut up, ego, or super-ego or higher self or fucking whatever. Deacon had once made it about half-way through an old text book on something called ‘psychology’ before he’d had to stop before he decided that he was insane. 

Besides, a one night stand was by literal definition, one night. Not one hour. But hey, compromise. One more go-round and then he’d be out of here like a tree in the fall. Ceiling-self reluctantly conceded. “You doubting my dirty talk? Gimme a few and we can switch it up. Unless--” His mouth was dry so it took more effort than it usually did to sound like the chill-est, most low-key dude in the ‘Wealth, “Unless you need to come and go.”

The quirk in Mac’s lips said that he appreciated the double entendre. “Not til tomorrow,” he murmured. “Winlock and Barnes run me ragged between Hyde Park and the Plaza.”

Deacon wrapped his arms around MacCready and pulled him closer. Appreciative leer. “Ragged. Sounds interesting.”

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know, Mac's language! But I tend to excuse ‘fuck me’ during sex, as it’s more of an invitation than a curse, and I think MacCready and Duncan—when he’s older!—would too. How does Mac know about porn? Well, it absolutely defies belief that there is no porn in the Commonwealth--look, if they are drawing handmade comic books like Tales of Junktown Jerky Vendor, you know someone, _somewhere_ is writing Tales of Blow Jobs and Bottoming. Deacon, with his Pre-war book fetish, is obviously not as familiar with 'Wealther porn. ) 
> 
> The fun part of using Daytripper as an enabler is that it enhances both charisma and luck—and they both took it. How convenient that it both made them seem more attractive to each other and also more susceptible to that attraction. Deacon, Mr. Unreliable Narrator, is particularly susceptible, because he both really does and really really does not _want_ to be attracted. To anyone. Umm.. I tried to write this as fun casual sex but Deacon wouldn't let me.... Thank you to everyone who reads this!!


	9. Chapter 9

MacCready relaxed, one hand flattening loosely across Deacon’s chest. “Sure. Hey, you’re not headed to Quincy anytime soon, are you?” 

“Nope. I’m a city boy. If it doesn’t have ruined buildings, supermutants and a bustling night-life, it’s not for me.” Deacon yawned and stretched out his legs, and MacCready obligingly shifted over. It didn’t feel too awkward, which was one thing that he usually disliked about one night stands. Mac was …refreshing. 

He took a deep breath and relaxed. Mmm… He wasn’t sure he could stay awake after another round. Maybe he'd be up for a quickie in the morning. Because…. No way was he forgetting this guy. He could see the value in a friendly contact inside the Gunners and he bet he could convince Dez of it, too. And as far as that one-night-only thing, eh, he lied a lot. He’d have make an occasional rendezvous to check-in.

Rational-self snorted. You really think you’re going for some hot-pal-with-benefits hook up, Deacon? 

Fair enough. Maybe he wouldn’t. Chances were good that pretty soon he'd recant and scoot. Right now, he was buzzed enough to be aware that he was buzzed and that lent some emotional honesty to his thoughts. How much was Daytripper and how much was Deacon? If he didn't feel repulsed remembering this tomorrow, then that might be a problem. But leave that for now--keeping Mac as a source was too heavy. He'd rather think about kissing MacCready from neck to toes, and then heading back to the Old North Church, with a (hopefully) sore ass, and a neatly-sanitized version of this encounter for Dez.

Nowhere near Quincy or Covenant or the other two-bit settlements out there. Huh. A little bit of truth there, he actually was a city boy. Don't make that a habit, Deacon, rational-self warned. If his memory served Hyde Park was just up the road from Quincy. He was pretty sure they had a tourist there, he thought idly, and where there were tourists, there was a resettled synth or two. Smuggling all synths out of the Commonwealth was a relatively recent Railroad policy and there were still synths scattered across Boston. And some that did leave, managed to end up here again.

Wait a minute. Tickle at the back of his mind. He’d heard something recently. Oh yeah. Someone talking about an overdue caravan. From… 

Bits of talk, rumors, overheard whispers suddenly fell into place with a click. And everything snapped from lazy softness to sharp colors and hard edges. It was a shock, but he was with it, on top of it, because Deacon was good in a crisis. He pushed MacCready away and sat up, the coldness in his veins making it hard to breathe. “Are the Gunners going to hit Quincy?” 

MacCready’s muscles tightened, and that told him all he needed to know. “What the fuck is in Quincy?” He ground his hands into his eyes. “When?” Synths lived there. Memory-wiped, living as humans synths. Looking for a warm hearth in this fucking cold world.

“I don’t know,” MacCready said, low. “I asked, I got my chops busted, and now they won’t tell me.” 

Deacon jumped out of bed and started pulling his clothes on. “Soon?" What was he saying, of course it was soon, otherwise why would be Mac be cutting through Diamond City to—how had he put it?---to pick up recruits, supplies, etc. He was shocked that he'd been so stupid. The Gunners were up to something but it didn't involve the Railroad. You'd think that he'd have learned by now that the Commonwealth would never run out of violence and hatred, and it always ended up splashing. He didn’t care about Quincy, the Railroad was too thinly spread as it was to worry about human on human violence…but the synths. The tourist. He had to warn them to get out. 

“Who are you?” He turned around to find MacCready staring at him as if he’d never seen him before. Well, he hadn’t. He’d seen Trader Dave, not--Deacon felt a flash of regret, hastily suppressed. Plans, thoughts, fun, whatever—none of it mattered now. He’d seen his face, the real him. There would be no keeping this source. _Wasteland bible, verse 1:1: Everybody’s out for themselves_. 

Deacon leaned over him deliberately and grabbed his throat, tightly enough to cause pain, but not do any permanent damage. If he stopped to think about it, it actually disgusted him that he knew where that line was. “When?” he repeated. “I don’t want to hurt you, man.” 

MacCready’s eyes never left his, and he didn’t even struggle. “I said I don’t know.” His voice was strained and soft and the vibration of his throat beneath Deacon's fingers felt ...intimate. MacCready had a faint red mark under one ear, and Deacon wasn't sure if he had put it there. An instant of dizziness, like the floor was being pulled out from under him. Nope. No time for this. Deacon released him and stepped back. He wasn’t going to hurt MacCready--him. That guy he’d…. No, just that guy. The Gunner. He believed him anyway. His fingernails had left marks on ….. His stomach tightened. 

“Who are you?” the other guy repeated. He had to get out of here. He could feel the time ticking, trickling away, and -- 

“Someone who cares about s---I mean, Quincy." He stepped back from the bed warily, and half-buttoned his shirt and shoved his feet into his boots. Running out of here half-dressed was real walk-of-shame shit. The bartender would never let him live it down. He'd have to have a face change before he could come back to Diamond City. Meanwhile, cold, calculating rational Deacon was trying to figure out what to do with this information. There was a dead drop close by but he wasn't sure how reliable the pickup schedule was. He could report to HQ, but that might be too late. The only sure way would be to head there himself. Walking. Fuck. He didn't even know how long it would take. He took another step back and turned away toward the door.

The bed squeaked and rustled and then there was a metallic click and something cold touched his skin at the base of his neck. Shit! He thought he’d put all of Mac’s---the Gunner's, damnit--guns out of his reach. He swallowed and held his hands up at chest level. Gauged the likelihood of reaching his thirty-eight before his skull got perforated. 

“Who are you?” MacCready repeated icily, and hey, he was a hell of a lot more persuasive when he had a gun to your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MacCready--short, younger and so easily underestimated…to the point where it’s now a survival strategy to allow himself to be underestimated….sigh. He pegged Deacon about 30 seconds after he sat down, but for reasons of his own, found it beneficial to play along… And despite the clues that MacCready was not as fooled as he wanted to think, Deac jumped right on in. 
> 
> Deacon--he’s a liar's liar and constantly playing a part….  His casual, chill tone is just as much of a disguise as his sunglasses.  He has to keep everyone at arm’s length, and distant politeness is one way to do it.  Things are slipping out of his control now, and he won't take that well.


	10. Chapter 10

Dave. Johan. Drifter-dude. Mike, Diamond City guard. Deacon rapidly considered and discarded multiple personas, before deciding on the easiest. “I’m no one. No threat to you. But I have people in Quincy and I’ve got to warn them.” 

A little more truth than he had planned to reveal. MacCready grabbed his pistol off his belt. Deacon could hear the click as he unloaded it. One handed. The pressure of the gun at his head eased up a little. “Took you long enough. You’ll tell the Minutemen?” 

Minutemen? _That_ washed-up group of smug--Deacon was startled into the truth. “What? No.” 

He looked down and to one side and he could see MacCready’s bare feet behind him. He felt a surge of dismay and something like… betrayal. Pushed it down. Whatever. Amateur. _Tourist_. Mentally, he gave the term the contemptuous twist that Glory and Carrington always used. If Deacon wanted to get some info to the right ears, half-a-dozen ways leapt to mind and ‘sleep with a handy trader’ wasn’t even in the top _three_. 

MacCready moved around in front of him, naked and still holding the gun, a small tricked-out ten millimeter, with one hell of a big silencer. Deacon admired it and the view, even as he wondered where Mac had had it hidden. Looked like he needed to review personal searches with Tinker Tom. Going on the to-do list. 

The Gunner looked pissed. That was a little worrisome. But surely he hadn’t spilled the beans so dramatically just to kill him now. “There are families in Quincy. Kids.” 

Now it was Deacon’s turn to feel angry. Low blow, dude. Low even for a Gunner. He hid it behind an easy smile. “They're not my problem.” 

The other guy’s finger tightened on the trigger, whether from reflex or deliberately, Deacon couldn't tell. He threw his arms out in alarm. “Whoa, man, I said I’m no threat to you! I was telling the truth!” 

He finally pushed his shoulders back and eased off the trigger, which helped slow Deacon's heart. Although now would be the time to rush him. But even naked and with his finger off the trigger, Deacon didn't like the odds. The other man held the gun like it was an extension of himself. He glanced back at his face and was surprised to see the smaller man smiling, hard and humorless. “Go ahead," the Gunner invited. "Try it." 

His poker face was failing badly if Mac—no, if that _other_ guy could read him so well. Deacon gave himself a quick once-over, tense shoulders, hands nearly clenched, poised forward on the balls of his feet. Crap, Deacon, you're a mess, rational-self commented in amusement. _Shut up_. 

He took a step back, kept his hands up. "No, you're right." Lowered head in dejection and then.... _Slowly_ : widened his stance, relaxed his upper body and smiled, easy, both hands half-held out, as if for the other to take. "Look, I’m sorry. MacCready--this is just a misunderstanding. There's no real reason for us to be at odds, right?" Slight crinkle of the eyes, twitch of the lips, subtle reminders of what they were doing a few minutes ago, what they could be doing now, instead of fighting. 

MacCready took a breath and almost relaxed, Deacon could see the tension beginning to ease out of his frame... But then he shook his head, smiling. "Pretty damn good. I'd almost believe you if I hadn’t already seen your O face." The gun barrel was still steady as a rock on Deacon's mid-section. "Now for the last time, _who are you_?" 

Deacon felt the fight drain out of him with a rush. He was so tired suddenly. And this was wasting time that he didn’t have. “All right, all right. I’m Deacon. I’m with the Railroad.” 

“The Railroad,” MacCready repeated in clear surprise. “The idiots trying to free synths?” 

Deacon smiled, added a double-helping of sarcasm, hardened his expression. “Yeah, hey, so you know us. We’re like, famous. Cool.” He straightened up to his full height, dropped the lazy drawl. “Not as famous as the Gunners will be once they butcher Quincy, but that just gives us a goal. Everybody needs something to shoot for.” _Shoot_ for? Get it, _Gunner_? 

The gibe hit home and MacCready’s face closed down. Deacon took mean satisfaction in it. “So MacCready, if that really is your name, are you going to kill me out of pique, or can I go? Seems I've got an appointment in Quincy.” Tried to ignore the sour taste that saying his name left in his mouth. 

Mac’s eyes were angry. “Yep, that’s really my name.” He lowered the gun slowly. “But Deacon’s a code name, right? Run around and play your stupid spy games, while real people die.” 

Real people. Like Barbara hadn’t been real? Like the synths he’d helped since then hadn’t been real. Screw this guy. Sure that he knew the truth. Deacon was way ahead of him. There wasn't anything special about him, them, humans in general. It took pre-war humans to really screw up the world. Maybe it was the synths' turn. Also like M--- Like Gunners didn't shoot 'real people' for a living. 

Deacon took his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on. Welcomed the dimmed, slightly-unreal version of the world. Made it easier to keep his tone light and unemotional. “So _I'm_ being judged now. By a killer. A murderer even. That feels unfair. Tell me, Gunner, who was your last contract? Man, woman, child?” Deacon paused for a long beat, before finishing on a gently musing tone: “Do you even _remember_?” 

The Gunner smiled bitterly and Deacon saw a familiar echo in his eyes. Because he recognized self-loathing, said the interior voice. He wasn’t fucking crazy. Deacon was perfectly capable of owning up to his deficiencies, thank you very much. He saw them every morning when he looked in the mirror. He knew them..... _intimately_ , one might say. They said things like _‘You don’t deserve to be alive, much less in the Railroad’_ and _‘You are literal scum.’_

MacCready finally lowered his neat little gun, and gestured toward the door wearily. “Yeah. I guess as far as complete _fucking_ wastes of time go, the Railroad is super noble. Better than the Gunners, that’s for sure. Now get out.” 

Deacon eased slowly toward the door, but the other didn’t move. Thought about saying something, then thought again. Closed the door behind him gently. “Well, that could have gone better,” he remarked to the empty hallway. He turned and stared at the doorknob. Plain brass. Tarnished. Just like everything else in this wonderful post-apocalypse. Resisted the urge to reach out and turn it. 

It didn’t matter. He’d gotten what he was after. He took a deep breath and his hands were… not shaking. He was fine. He was Deacon, Railroad super-agent. He definitely was not affected by that Gunner's bullshit. He stepped out into the pre-dawn quiet and headed toward the gates. The guards would let him through and he could start the walk to Quincy. He’d drop a line to the militia if he was in time. Maybe. 

He wasn’t.

~the end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it might not fit the time line, but too bad—it's just too sweet and angsty not to imagine that the issue of Quincy is why MacCready quit the Gunners. 'Fucking' is there because per the game, MacCready will say it when he’s upset enough. And here Mac is making himself incredibly vulnerable, risking everything… And Deacon throws it right back in his face, calls him a murderer and a killer… 
> 
> Deacon has to be in control or he lashes out and we get nasty, passive-aggressive Deacon saying as much mean shit as he can think up. 
> 
> (Even when he's in a good mood, he's passive-aggressive-- "Before I met you, I used to go whole days without massacring a bunch of things"--but when he's upset, the filters really come off. One of his 'upset Deacon' lines to the player is: "You pre-War types did a number on the world, didn't you?") 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy. let me know if I should re-visit these two in another fic. I know, Deacon said just one night (and no mouth kissing) but we already know Deacon’s full of crap, right?


End file.
